


The Fears Are Paper Tigers

by Naiesu



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: M/M, Yiga Clan Sheik, i couldn't deny myself, they hate each other isn't this fun guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiesu/pseuds/Naiesu
Summary: Link takes a moment to say, “Tell me where the Yiga Clan is.”“No.”“You’ll die.”He imagines if the man could shrug he would have. “Then I die,” he says, flippant and unworried.





	The Fears Are Paper Tigers

There is a brief, brief flicker of a moment when Link remembers the very first time he was taught to never let his guard down.

He slams into the ground, body weight caught on his shoulder and wrist where he tries to catch himself. The weight that knocked him off his horse lifts, and he rolls, eyes blurry from dust and the settling shock of sudden movement. He’s disoriented and panicking. His sword is not on his back.

When he rolls he knocks his attacker off balance, and they trip over his calves. He can hear them jump away. He rolls again, catching himself on his stomach and lifting to his feet. His vision clears. A member of the Yiga Clan stands a few yards away, twirling a sickle.

 _This isn’t how this works_ , his addled brain thinks, trying to calm itself. His thoughts are a mess, muddled with adrenaline instead of cool indifference. _They usually speak to me first._

It doesn’t matter. His priority is finding a weapon or a shield. He reaches over his shoulder, patting his back, but it must’ve been knocked off in their initial tussle. He glances to the side and sees it lying partially covered in the grass. Too far. Eyes on the foot soldier, he pats his sides. Maybe just a—

His sword. He’d taken the holster off to ease the stress on his shoulder and let it hang around his waist. He draws it, kicking the leather straps off over by his shield.

Neither of them move. He has the disadvantage, he _always_ has the disadvantage. He could run as fast as he could toward the soldier and they could easily disappear. Easing forward would leave him in the same position. He twirls his sword. Waiting.

The soldier slaps his palms together and Link dives to the side. He regains his footing and grips his sword, diving back in. The foot soldier appears in a burst of red, and Link nearly chokes, feeling the magic clawing its way into his throat. He slashes blindly.

His sword is parried, and he hits the ground on all fours when the soldier moves. Link rolls out of the smoke, waving to clear the air, and tries to locate anything through his watering eyes.

 _There_. A flash of red in his peripheral. Link jumps, sword posed to stab, but he’s a fraction too late. The soldier’s sickle rips through his shirt and tears into his skin. Link digs his toes into the ground and lurches forward, shoving his own sword into the soldier’s unprotected abdomen.

Their sickle swings down at the last second, but Link can feel the give of fabric and muscle before his weapon is knocked away.

Link uses his momentum to knock the soldier onto the ground, and pins them there with his own weight, sword at their neck. He shifts forward, rolling his weight onto his knees to hold their upper arms down. His breathing is slow to calm again.

He’s never caught a member of the Yiga Clan before. They are fast to appear, and even faster to run. Link stares down at the mask facing him. Neither of them speak.

“Nothing to say?” It’s a man’s voice beneath the mask, soft and lilting. Link hadn’t taken the sickle out of his hand, and the tip presses against the small of his back, a whisper of a threat. “You were an absolute chatterbox yesterday.”

Yesterday? Who did he meet yesterday. A few people he spoke to in passing on the road, but no one—

He remembers. A man with blond hair, nearly white, and hazel eyes so orange they shone red in the setting sun. His smile was so naïve and guileless it had drawn Link in. He had tried to sell Link bananas.

“I know you recognize me.” The man’s soothing voice is a stark contrast to the sharp pain in Link’s back. The sickle digs into his spine. “Not even going to say hello?”

“The sword’s poisoned.”

Link can feel how rigid the man goes. He stops moving. They both stare at each other, at an impasse and either unwilling to trek forward or not knowing how to. The man’s wound is bleeding enough to pool onto the ground. Link’s own wound seeps into his shirt.

“It’s not,” the man says.

Link stares at him, silent. He keeps his grip on his blade, but his hand is cramping. His fingers spasm, and the man chokes on a hastily stifled gasp, forcing himself to go still once more.

“It’s _not_ ,” he says again, but the conviction is lost in a slight tremor.

Link moves his blade away a fraction. He doesn’t want to accidentally cut him while playing at a threat. “Of course.”

The man is quiet. Thinking. His voice is stable again when he says, “You haven’t killed me.”

No, Link hasn’t. It’s too obvious a statement for him to respond, so he waits.

Taking this as his cue to go on, the man says, “Which means you want something.” He waits another brief second for Link, as If ready to be contradicted, but nothing is forthcoming. “And judging by your poorly executed bluff, that something is information.”

Link takes a moment to say, “Tell me where the Yiga Clan is.”

“No.”

“You’ll die.”

He imagines if the man could shrug he would have. “Then I die,” he says, flippant and unworried.

There’s no use harassing a dead man then. Link stands. He wipes his blade down, sheathing it, and collects his shield and harness from the ground on the way to his spooked horse. She paws at the ground when he gets closer, huffing in agitation.

The air behind him is displaced, and he has to fight every one of his instincts not to move, to pretend he doesn’t feel it. The sickle curves around his throat. Fingers curl into his tunic, long and thin, and tug the faintest hint.

“I thought you were ready to die,” Link says.

The man leans over Link’s shoulder somewhat, taller by more than a head. “We’re both liars, then.”

Link reaches down slowly, unsheathing his sword again. The sickle around his neck goes flush against his skin, and he moves even slower, careful to hold it up at the right height. The blade has flecks of dry blood on the guard and the pommel is still slick where it brushed up against Link’s ribs. What really stands out, however, is the faint purple sheen the metal is spotted in, making it look smoky and dull.

The man goes still, breath halted, like he’s become incredibly aware of the hole above his hip.

It is a long moment before the man regains himself enough to speak. “Where is the antidote.”

“Where is the Yiga Clan?” Link’s treading a thin line, knows exactly where it was drawn ten feet behind them in the dirt at the first mention of poison.

The fingers on his shoulder move to his ponytail, yanking his head back. Link can feel the sickle catch against his Adam’s apple and tries not to swallow. “ _This isn’t a game_ ,” the man hisses.

Link looks at the mask out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll give to the antidote if you give me information,” he says. “That’s my offer.”

“You don’t get to make any offer!” He doesn’t yell, but he may as well with the way anger seeps around his calm. The sickle nicks Link’s skin.

“Then kill me.” It’s a stupid thing to say. Maybe a bit of a stretch, as well, but he’s taking the risk. “You can go back to your clan as a martyr.” It feels cruel to say.

The man stares at him a few seconds longer, and finally lets Link go. The fight drains out of him in an instant, and he presses a hand to his abdomen, watching. _What does that mean_ , Link wonders, stepping away to face him.

“Get me the antidote first,” the man says.

It’s almost sealing, the way it carries in the quiet between them.

“Fine,” Link agrees. He approaches his horse again, and she looks even more agitated than before. She flicks him with her tail when he digs through her saddlebags.

He tosses clothes to the man, who only just manages to catch them around his sickle. “What are these for?”

“We’re going through Kakariko.” Link looks through another one of his packs, but comes up short. He taps his finger against the saddle. “I don’t have any more of the antidote, so I’ll make some elixirs tomorrow as a temporary fix.”

“Don’t have any more,” the man repeats in a hiss, exasperated.

Link ignores it, turning back to face him. “What’s your name?”

It’s damning, what he’s asked for. Agreeing to travel with the man he’s meant to kill is one thing—it could be played off as a ruse to get close—but giving away his name is the last barricade keeping the man’s life from becoming forfeit. Link gives it a sturdy try either way.

The man doesn’t look like he knows what to do. It’s obvious what he _wants_ to do, but his hands are tied. He stares. Eventually, he sighs.

Bloodied fingers remove the mask, and the smile Link sees is not the one he remembers, warm and benevolent. It is bitter and mean, marring wine red eyes.

“Sheik.”


End file.
